Dear asshole that stole the one thing I own that I actually care about (a.k.a. my bike) while I was out of town for the weekend cottaging with the man of my dreams,
FUCK OFF AND DIE.
Love, and many exes and ohs,
Lush
Showing posts with label heartbreak. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heartbreak. Show all posts
Monday, August 10, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Re: A Letter.
That you sent me on Sunday. I read it as I dodged endless carts of Chinese vegetables that I can never pronounce the names of correctly. And my borrowed fake silk scarf fell from my tangled, slept-on mop of hair right into a puddle…so I made the knot tighter around my neck, and kept the pace, as I always do - but you know that already, don't you?
But if only you knew why I'm walking around like this at three o'clock p.m. on the nicest day of the year yet.
If only you knew about the morning of rain in bed, plain toast, phony constellation t-shirts from 1992.
If only you knew that it's not you.
I can't bring myself to send any of it back. I don't want to have to be the one to tell you. It's been over since the day I left, and I can't go back, can't go back, to the place I was before [insert guitar solo]. Your 14-point Arial words just shake in and out of focus, and from time to time I'll go back to them because I can't even remember what it is I've read. Not making me feel better. But not making me feel worse, either. You're right. It is a shame.
So I've made my bed. I'll lie in it.
But if only you knew why I'm walking around like this at three o'clock p.m. on the nicest day of the year yet.
If only you knew about the morning of rain in bed, plain toast, phony constellation t-shirts from 1992.
If only you knew that it's not you.
I can't bring myself to send any of it back. I don't want to have to be the one to tell you. It's been over since the day I left, and I can't go back, can't go back, to the place I was before [insert guitar solo]. Your 14-point Arial words just shake in and out of focus, and from time to time I'll go back to them because I can't even remember what it is I've read. Not making me feel better. But not making me feel worse, either. You're right. It is a shame.
So I've made my bed. I'll lie in it.
Friday, January 23, 2009
You said the brains I had went to my head.
My brother driving, me in the backseat, changing the radio station and hearing the opening chords of 'Don't Look Back in Anger'.
At night.
Away from 1503 forever.
Exactly what I needed to hear when I needed to hear it.
And shouting it out the window into a cold, dark, typical January cityscape. Packed up in between all of the cargo of broken hearts and empty apartments. Lungs filled with cigarette smoke, cold air and relief. Feeling it in a place inside my chest that I didn't know existed until that very moment.
Exalted.
And you ain't ever gonna burn my heart out.
At night.
Away from 1503 forever.
Exactly what I needed to hear when I needed to hear it.
And shouting it out the window into a cold, dark, typical January cityscape. Packed up in between all of the cargo of broken hearts and empty apartments. Lungs filled with cigarette smoke, cold air and relief. Feeling it in a place inside my chest that I didn't know existed until that very moment.
Exalted.
And you ain't ever gonna burn my heart out.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Lists.
I’ve been revolving my day around lists.
Lists, lists, lists, ubiquitous
and organized
and productive
and goal-oriented
lists.
Remember to eat, they tell me.
Respond to e-mails.
Wake up early enough to have time to shower.
Figure out what to wear tomorrow.
Call your brother.
Wear winter boots.
And then.
Somewhere in there between the things I’m reminding myself of.
Affirming to myself that I need to do, of which I do not need to be reminded or affirmed.
Are the real ones.
In a lyric.
In a phrase.
In a telephone conversation.
On new paper in a new book.
Raspberries and coffee taste delicious together.
Become everything you said you never would be.
Enemy fire. Filling me blanks.
Again and again and again
through my useless, symmetrical head
these useless sentiments ring.
It’s been six days
and already
the lists and reminders
have marred and forever burdened one hundred and two
once clean, lined pages.
I have frostbite on my toes from the cold.
And frostbite in my hands from you.
Lists, lists, lists, ubiquitous
and organized
and productive
and goal-oriented
lists.
Remember to eat, they tell me.
Respond to e-mails.
Wake up early enough to have time to shower.
Figure out what to wear tomorrow.
Call your brother.
Wear winter boots.
And then.
Somewhere in there between the things I’m reminding myself of.
Affirming to myself that I need to do, of which I do not need to be reminded or affirmed.
Are the real ones.
In a lyric.
In a phrase.
In a telephone conversation.
On new paper in a new book.
Raspberries and coffee taste delicious together.
Become everything you said you never would be.
Enemy fire. Filling me blanks.
Again and again and again
through my useless, symmetrical head
these useless sentiments ring.
It’s been six days
and already
the lists and reminders
have marred and forever burdened one hundred and two
once clean, lined pages.
I have frostbite on my toes from the cold.
And frostbite in my hands from you.
History.
In the beginning of the last month of two thousand and eight I wrote...
And so it ends where it began. With December, with the Verve, with text messages cryptically and neither wanting to appear too eager. I don't want to dream away my life with my hometown and stealing my brother's hats, with friends on Queen Street and with writing words down but not knowing what they mean. I don't think I ever really wanted this. Falling into the last three years was so easy, far too easy, to do. In it, and in it and in it some more, I of course grew to love you and even convince myself that I wanted to. But I didn't want to, and don't still.
I don't know what's going to happen to my life now that I've done what I've done. But I'll live with it either way.
Perhaps here I will write about relationships, perhaps I will write about clothing and perhaps I will write about the fact that I enjoy going to work on Wednesdays more than any other day of the week because the Second Cup downstairs brews that delicious ambrosia-like stuff more commonly known as Caramelo. I don't know, and I refuse to try to figure it out. All I can ascertain in this very moment is that I will write about anything and everything that crosses and has crossed my mind since the moment I wrote the words above in a little dollar store notebook on the GO train, and I might write it here sometimes. It makes me feel better to do so. I don't know why.
And so it ends where it began. With December, with the Verve, with text messages cryptically and neither wanting to appear too eager. I don't want to dream away my life with my hometown and stealing my brother's hats, with friends on Queen Street and with writing words down but not knowing what they mean. I don't think I ever really wanted this. Falling into the last three years was so easy, far too easy, to do. In it, and in it and in it some more, I of course grew to love you and even convince myself that I wanted to. But I didn't want to, and don't still.
I don't know what's going to happen to my life now that I've done what I've done. But I'll live with it either way.
Perhaps here I will write about relationships, perhaps I will write about clothing and perhaps I will write about the fact that I enjoy going to work on Wednesdays more than any other day of the week because the Second Cup downstairs brews that delicious ambrosia-like stuff more commonly known as Caramelo. I don't know, and I refuse to try to figure it out. All I can ascertain in this very moment is that I will write about anything and everything that crosses and has crossed my mind since the moment I wrote the words above in a little dollar store notebook on the GO train, and I might write it here sometimes. It makes me feel better to do so. I don't know why.
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